


Understanding Evil

by DJClawson



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Identity Reveal, Vigilantism, Violence, minor medical gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJClawson/pseuds/DJClawson
Summary: Filling the Secret Santa Prompt: 
"Just, anything exploring Frank Castle and if he's a good man. Would love if a friendship (or comradeship between Matt and Frank also came into it - not romantic though, if you could - and the contrast between their world views features."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettybirdy979](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/gifts).



Matt had an understanding with Frank.

Well, sort of. Daredevil had an understanding with the Punisher, however unconscious and possibly unrealistic that understanding was, and it was as follows: stay out of my way, and vice versa. Matt stayed within the bounds of Hell’s Kitchen, and Frank went to Brooklyn, or Queens, or even Tampa, or wherever it was he decided to kill people these days. Matt didn’t keep track most of the time. Out of sight, out of mind (haha). There were plenty of places to find criminals, but Castle seemed to be laying low most of the time, possibly because he had finished off the Blacksmith and his gangs, or because the Hand had been enough for him. Matt didn’t feel like he had a real window into Frank. They hadn’t spoken since the trial, and Frank hadn’t spoken to Daredevil since the night at the cemetery. He never knew if Frank had put things together himself, or just didn’t bother, or didn’t have enough information, and he wasn’t interested in chasing him down to find out. Frank didn’t have a secret identity to protect, but he didn’t have much of a life, either.

Then again, these days, neither did Matt. Even when things were quiet – and the mass-shooting of ninjas on a rooftop in Midtown had scared off major operations for a little while – he was out every night if he could manage it, waiting and listening. There were just a few nights when he was laid up, or the few days he had a cold and it messed with his senses, and there was Sunday, the L-rd’s day, when it _did_ have to be an emergency. Church was practically the only other place he went, since he did his grocery shopping with Fresh Direct. It wasn’t healthy, or even financially sensible since he was still paying the office rent for Nelson and Murdock, even with Elektra’s money, but he couldn’t convince himself to get out of the bed in the morning and pretend he was ready to be a lawyer again. On his own. Without Foggy or Karen or even, fuck it, Elektra. Frank didn’t need a job, did he? Where did Frank get his money?

(Matt heard someone had blown up Frank Castle’s house on Long Island, and from the details of the explosion, it was almost definitely Frank, so maybe fire insurance? That seemed like it would be hard for him to collect on)

He usually didn’t ask himself too many questions about the Punisher, but there were not a lot of other ways to fill the hours that weren’t depressing as he stood on the rooftops and kept his ear out for the scum of Hell’s Kitchen to emerge from their hidey-holes.

This particular evening, Frank beat him to it. Frank always overprepared in the weapons department, with his military-grade hardware against the handguns and sawed-off shotguns that minor players carried around. It was different in Harlem, where a flood of dangerous weaponry seemed to have flooded the streets (in reaction to Luke Cage), but it didn’t make it down that far, with the buffer of Columbia-owned Morningside Heights and the gentrified Upper West Side. And subways had cameras.

So Matt heard Frank before he saw him, with the distinct sounds of high-grade weaponry appropriately equipped with silencers, though Frank abandoned those quickly for things that were more up-close-and-personal as he closed in on his prey. Matt wasn’t sure why this particular drug gang deserved to die, but he was fairly sure he closed the distance between them. Both sides were armed, but this was hardly the first fight he’d interrupted where that was the case, and none of them (except maybe Frank) were expecting Daredevil at this late stage. The thugs were clumsy, barely-trained, and easy to psych  out with a punch to the jaw. Frank stopped firing when Matt stepped in – even when it was dark, his horns were pretty distinct – and had to refocus on not shooting Matt alongside his targets. It was a nice courtesy, Matt thought, that the Punisher didn’t hit stray people, considering how casual he was with exactly what level of criminality you needed to die.

There were more thugs than the two vigilantes, and they took the moment free of gunfire to recover as best they could, shooting wildly into the night. One bullet definitely hit Frank, but in the body armor, though it would certainly leave a mark. Matt was up-close-and-personal, so what got him in the back was a knife. It was serrated, and though it was eventually trapped by the seams between types of armor, it definitely made a slice in the material that was meant for bullets, whichever color that one was (Melvin had never specified which was which). Pain shimmered down Matt’s shoulder blade but he took it out in trade, grabbing his attacker’s arm and twisting it until it snapped.

“Frank,” he said, putting his free hand up when he sensed him coming. “Stop.” He knew full well what would happen if he didn’t put himself between the Punisher and the man with a busted wrist, who wouldn’t be firing a gun anytime soon.

“Choirboy,” Frank said, not exactly surprised, and turned and shot the man running up next to him straight in the chest. This man didn’t have body armor; organ failure was almost spontaneous. The others who were still alive were running now, but Frank didn’t chase. He grabbed Matt’s attacker by the bad arm and hurled him onto a car window. “You got lucky.” He wound tape around the arm and taped him to the rearview mirror. The car alarm was going off, so the police (if not too put off by the shooting) would be here soon. “It’s not going to happen twice.”

There were two dead bodies on the ground, still warm even though their hearts were no longer pumping blood. It was a cold night, so that wouldn’t last. Matt crossed himself.

“Aren’t you the king of irony,” Castle said, clearly very annoyed with his presence tonight, and it took Matt a second to realize it was because he was wearing a devil costume.

“Those men,” Matt said, but he needed a deep breath to say the rest, and the rush of cold air in his lungs was unpleasant. “They didn’t have much on them. They were low-level guys.”

“Doesn’t make them innocent. Where do you think high-level guys come from, anyway?” Frank holstered his current weapon and paused on the street. “You okay, Red?”

What a strange question. “Yes.” He was about to leap up to the fire escape ladder to prove it, but his body felt like lead, and was not even a tiny bit inclined to follow through with it, even though it was an easy jump, the sort that he made all the time.

Plus, what was he supposed to do? Ask the Punisher for a ride?

But the Punisher already had a hand on his arm. That was a bad sign. Normally nobody got the jump on Daredevil. It was supposed to be the other way around. “Ah, shit. Just get in the car.”

“It’s New York. No one has a car.”

“That’s why they always miss it,” Frank explained and shoved him into the backseat. “And don’t bleed over everything.”

Matt didn’t think he was bleeding, certainly not as much as last time he was in the backseat of a non-cab. He was cold, though, colder than he had been all night. He was shivering in his suit, which was wet inside for some reason, and he was so overfocused on that that he missed the first few turns and had to recalibrate where he thought they were.

The Westside Highway. Claire’s clinic was in Harlem, but Matt didn’t want to give that away. The last thing Claire needed in her life was some kind of Hippocratic obligation to help the Punisher, a man who had shot up her hospital and had to be part of the reason she left her job.

They didn’t go up into the Bronx, so that put Frank’s new safehouse somewhere in Washington Heights, where things mostly smelled of tire stores, but Matt wasn’t entire sure. He did know there was a covered garage – definitely a necessity for the Punisher – and a barking dog somewhere, in response to their arrival.

Matt managed to climb out of the car himself, but his body felt like cement, and he had to spend all of his energy mapping out the room to find the doorway to the ratty apartment, because Frank wasn’t exactly offering a tour. When he entered the dining room, if that half of the main room could be called that, Frank was washing his hands in the sink.

“You wearing anything under that getup?”

“Yeah.” Granted, it was only boxers and a silk undershirt, but it was something.

“Lucky me.” Frank grabbed his arm again (ow!) then reached for a kitchen chair and pulled them both into the bathroom and sat him down next to the tub. “How do we get this off?”

Matt gestured to the clips on the side. This newer version came in two pieces instead of one, which he found easier to get in and out of, but currently they were connected. “It has to go over my head.” He took his mask off, because he knew from experience that the suit wouldn’t come off with it in place, unfortunately baring his face to Frank.

There was a spike in Frank’s heartrate and a momentary pause in his handiwork, and Matt knew Frank was busy recognizing him but trying not to show it. So, the Punisher hadn’t put two and two together before now. Matt had never been sure on that, especially not after the night on the roof with Elektra, but now he knew.

Neither of them commented on it, which was nice. Frank went back to work and he was able to pull the top part of the suit up and off. Matt hissed long and hard as he did it. His undershirt was soaked with a combination of sweat and blood. The scratch in the back from the knife was no scratch. It was mostly surface, for it was bleeding a lot, and had been for some time, but the suit had been holding it in.

“Thought so,” Frank said, moving around to take a seat on the edge of the tub behind him. “You want to go to a real doctor? They’ll ask some questions but their stitches will be prettier.”

It definitely did need stitches, if only to stop the bleeding. When Matt didn’t answer, Frank pulled Matt’s shirt up to his neck and doused his back in peroxide. “Yeah it stings,” Frank said in response to Matt’s involuntary shudder. “It’s big but I don’t think it’s that deep. If it hit an artery you’d be out by now.”

“It didn’t hit anything important,” Matt said, now recognizing that his voice was weak for a reason. “It’s just – the knife was serrated.”

“You dizzy, Red?”

He was sitting, but that didn’t mean it was impossible to tell. “I’m okay.”

“If you pass out, this is gonna take longer.” Frank got up and disappeared for a moment, and Matt lost track of him in the apartment, spacing out until Frank returned with a towel to wipe down the sweat on his face and a carton of orange juice that he pressed into Matt’s hand. It was Tropicana, with the awful flavor packet chemical taste. “Don’t make a face,” Frank said, because apparently Matt was making one. “It’s good for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a growing boy.”

Frank retook his seat behind him. “You do look like a kid.”

“We’re two years apart,” Matt said, this time holding up to Frank’s ministrations as Frank wiped down the wound one last time before picking up the needle and fishing line.

“We’re worlds apart,” Frank said. “What were you doing when I was in basic, getting the shit kicked out of me? Going to junior prom?”

If Frank wanted to talk, fine. Matt was determined to hold up his end of the conversation – and stay awake. “Orphanages don’t have proms.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Frank told him. His technique was not exactly perfect and his hands lacked Claire’s confidence, but he could sew human flesh, and that wasn’t exactly nothing. “Just balloons and overpriced flowers and the same kids you see every day and you’ve seen every day since you were three.”

“I can see why you might think of the army as a way to expand your social circle.”

“The _marines_ ,” Frank corrected. “I wanted to serve my country. Ever been abroad, Red?”

“What do you think?”

“Yeah, you got city boy written all over you.”

As Matt was literally half-naked in front of Frank, he decided to respond with, “Sightseeing doesn’t really appeal to me.”

“You’re a fuckin’ looney toon.” But Frank wasn’t being particularly harsh when he said it. He was just making an observation. “You look like one.”

“Says the guy with a skull on his chest.”

“How do _you_ know?”

“Fuck you.” Again, Matt’s response, like Frank’s, wasn’t with any malice as Frank tied off the end and wiped the skin down again, along with the rest of his back, since Matt wouldn’t be able to shower with his back uncovered anytime soon. Matt was still cold and lightheaded but Frank made him finish his juice before wrapping him in a blanket and depositing him upright on Frank’s couch.

Matt was pretty sure he mumbled something about leaving, but right now the top edge of Frank’s ragged, smelly couch pressed against his cheek was just about the most wonderful thing in the world, followed only by staying still. He stayed sitting up, but his body gave in to exhaustion and he was so happy to let that happen.

He didn’t know he had been asleep until he felt a nudge against his knees, a twitching nose against fabric. Matt’s body was warmer and his upper half was finally dry, though now that all of the distractions were gone he really felt the sting of his wounds throbbing around Frank’s stitching. He reached out to attend to his visitor, patting him on the head. “Good boy.”

“He likes you,” Frank said as he entered the room, bearing a bowl of canned soup that was steaming but still smelled foul from the fact that it had to be at least half preservatives. He set it on the coffee table in front of Matt. “He likes everybody. He’s a terrible guard dog.”

“I know,” Matt said, ignoring the soup and scratching the dog behind its ears right before it jumped up on to the couch next to him. “You found him again.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is the same dog, with the Irish,” Matt said, not wanting to fully reveal that he’d been in a former safe house to snoop around. “You went to trial, prison, then you found him again?”

“It’s called the internet,” Frank said. “People are afraid to adopt dogfighting ring rescues. They’re not good with other dogs. And they’re scarred. They’re not pretty or cute.”

This dog was acting pretty cute, if cute was licking Matt’s face. Granted, a dog’s mouth was not the best-smelling place in the world, but Matt was used to dealing with his share of foul smells, usually without the added bonus of making a living thing really, really happy. “What kind of dog is it?”

“You can’t tell?”

“I ... don’t know much about dogs,” Matt admitted. “People say I should get one, but it’s because they think I _need_ one to take care of me. And I hate that.”

“Pity?”

Matt nodded.

“He’s a pitbull.” Frank picked up the soup and held it out in front of Matt. It was in a mug, and there was a spoon inside it. “His name is Max. Now eat.”

Matt wanted to say no, but he knew that he needed the water and the calories. And of the many things he was willing to argue with Frank, free soup was off the list of topics. He pushed Max’s face away just enough to be able to eat. Max buried himself in Matt’s side instead, sniffing up and down his bare chest as if Matt were hiding some kind of toy behind him. It was a nice distraction from the massive amounts of sodium he was ingesting. At least there were chunks of rehydrated vegetables in it, instead of just a slurry of salt and chemicals.

“Damn, you are so prissy,” Frank said, amused at Matt’s facial expressions.

“I have a refined palate,” Matt said. “Trust me, most of the time it’s just a hassle. You don’t want to know what’s in your food.”

“I’m a simple man with simple tastes.”

“For chemicals, apparently. And I think we’ve established that you’re a pretty complicated guy, Frank.”

“Yeah, coming from you? That’s rich. I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”

“Just because I wear a mask – “

“It’s not the mask!” Frank said, sitting back in the chair across from the couch. “I mean ok, yes, some of it is the mask. You can take it off and stop being Daredevil.”

“I’m always Daredevil.”

“You have another life! You have a business and loved ones and – “

“No, Nelson and Murdock is gone,” Matt corrected. “You watched it implode. But that was my fault, not theirs.”

“You were late to court because you were running around at night and falling asleep injured on a couch?”

Not joking now, Matt answered, “That is exactly what happened.”

“Can’t be someone you’re not, Red.”

“Well, I know that now.” Matt managed to finish off the soup. The acidity made him a little nauseous but it was manageable. “I told them where I stood and now they’ve moved on with their lives and so have I.”

Frank’s head perked up. “That’s a shitty thing to do to your friends.”

“What? Tell them the truth?”

“No. Back out on them. Not keeping up with your responsibilities is bad enough, but you shouldn’t do that to _people_ , too.”

“You’re one to talk.” With Max burrowing into his back or trying to get back up in his face, he said, “All you have is a dog.”

“Damn straight. And I take care of him. I wasn’t gonna leave him to die in a shelter. He was the first thing I checked up on when I got out of prison – “

“Got busted out of prison. By Fisk.”

“ – to see if someone adopted him. Nope, nobody wants a fighting dog. They think they’re too mean. Do you think he’s mean?”

“Not to people.” And Matt really didn’t want to come down on Frank’s dog. That was far too low, especially because this dog was so excited he was here. He scratched him behind the ears. “He only killed other dogs. And because he had to. He was trained to. It’s all he knew how to do.”

“You don’t think he’s a murderer? ‘Cuz he didn’t try to use non-lethal force? ‘Cuz he didn’t hold himself back from finishing the job at the last moment?”

“Frank, he’s a dog. Dogs can’t make moral decisions. They’re animals. They don’t have the capacity for it. So we make it for them. They can’t be held accountable for their actions.” He turned his head to Frank. “You’re not an animal. You’re a human being.”

“You don’t think those dealers should be held accountable?”

“I don’t think they should have died.”

Frank laughed. “And now you’re going to tell me the court system’s gonna compensate somehow. Because you believe in that so much. That’s why you’re out at night, dressed like it’s Halloween.”

“It’s not a perfect system.”

“Would you have defended them? If they came to you for help?”

“Depends on the charges,” Matt said. “But against the death penalty? Yes. Always. Only G-d can take a life. And the state’s not G-d.”

“Well, haven’t you thought it out so perfectly.”

“It’s why we took your case,” Matt said firmly. “Nobody offered it to us. Certainly nobody else wanted it. And the public defender they were gonna give you was incompetent. You would’ve been extradited to Delaware, where lethal injection would have been on the table, and the state has a very high execution rate. So we took the case. Foggy certainly didn’t want it. And Karen – “ He couldn’t speak for Karen. He knew that there was more that he didn’t know than what he did know. “The point is, we got you a plea deal to save your life, because it was saving a life. Not because I thought we were buddies. Because all lives have the same weight.”

Frank shifted uncomfortably; he was thinking. This was information he hadn’t known, either because he hadn’t been paying attention, or well enough to pay attention in the hospital, or because they’d never spelled out what their intentions were for him. Karen had physically spent the most time with Frank, followed by Foggy, and then Matt. Matt realized he didn’t know what most of the Nelson and Murdock’s interactions with Frank really were. He had Elektra to thank for that, even though her very name set off a sharp pang in his heart.

Finally, Frank said, “What if I thought I deserved to die?”

“Doesn’t matter what you thought. I represented you because of what I thought. And still do. Nobody deserves to die because they commit a crime. Not by our hands.”

“You were always such an absolutist? All the time? Because I remember – “

“I have my moments of weakness.” The dog’s fur was soft, even though it was short. It felt a bit like peach fuzz. “But I’ve been lucky. Someone always stopped me.”

“Who was the other person?”

“A ninja. And it wasn’t really a philosophical battle so much as him having blades on a chain. But it worked. I didn’t kill Fisk.”

“You regret that now?”

“Do you regret making a deal with him to get out of prison?”

“What would you have preferred?” Frank said. “That I kill him instead?”

“Point taken.”

“Would have made your life easier. He’s gunning for you.”

“I know,” Matt said with a grimace. “I’ll handle it.”

“You may not like the way I help, but if you need me, you know where I live now.”

Matt stood up. He was probably no good to go out that night without more rest, better found at _his_ apartment, but he was definitely much better than before. “Thank you for the assist last night.”

“I owed you one,” Frank said.

“You going to tell me not to get in your way next time?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth, Red. Guess your fancy degree is worth something.”

“Agree to disagree.”

But Matt was smiling when he said it.


End file.
